


First Priority

by hillbillied



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: A Trusty Industrial-Grade Wrench Named After Bill Leyden, Alternate Universe (Alien Series), Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Alternate Universe - Space, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Artificial Intelligence, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Evil Corporations, Friends to Lovers, Gay Robots, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rating May Change, Robot!Andrew Haldane, Robot/Human Relationships, Spaceships, Survival Horror, Xenomorphs (Alien Series)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28418373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hillbillied/pseuds/hillbillied
Summary: Eddie’s not exactly the favourite engineer on the TSS Peleliu. Nobody wants to be friends with the guy nicknamed ‘Hillbilly’ who keeps the coffee machine from spurting over their uniforms and makes the least credits-per-hour.Whatever, he’d much rather chat with the ship’s Automated Computer and Key Artificial Consciousness Keeper, anyway. (Or ‘ACK ACK’, for short.)
Relationships: Andrew A. "Ack-Ack" Haldane/Edward "Hillbilly" Jones
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What am I doing starting up another story? Getting way into AI!Andy, apparently.
> 
> Think The Pacific meets Alien: Isolation for the tone of sci-fi we're running with here. Only loosely based on the Alien universe though, taking the xenomorph primarily because it's so terrifying a threat. (No other Alien knowledge required cause fuck knows I only watched the first film.) We're more interested in Eddie fucking his android boyfriend.

Pennsylvania Five has got to be the _shittiest_ planet in the Greater Terran Galactic Area, and no part of it is shittier than its third moon, _Red Lion Three_.

A small, mountainous hunk of functionally inhabitable rock, sparsely populated by the descendants of a former mining colony. The combination of hills and former billets of the originally military-contracted miners resulted in the nickname ‘hillbillies’ for the population. They don’t mine so much anymore, what with all the resources having been stripped bare decades ago. Those jobs dried up quick, which the parent corporation, Gloucester Incorporated – and if you’re unfortunate enough to be from Red Lion Three, you spit when you say the name – claims was due to ‘safety concerns’.

Funny that. They sure as fuck weren’t concerned about anyone’s safety when they sent thousands of human extractors down to find those delicious Litanium deposits. All of about nine years and three-hundred recorded accidents – and numerous unrecorded ones – later, and suddenly they’d grown all caring for their fellow man.

Nothing to do with the Litanium drying up. Definitely not.

That story isn’t relevant, though Eddie’s certain he tells it often enough. It’s all he’s got. His Advanced Technical Diploma in Applied Field Engineering (Transport Maintenance) isn’t turning any heads, least of all with the military scholarship stamp flashing over the screen.

Thanks for that, Terran Marine Expeditionary Corps. Only insisted on five years enlisted service and then three more as a technical officer for the pleasure.

Fuck TMEC, honestly.

The TSS Peleliu is a _science_ vessel.

Convenient, it means they can dodge all the weapons-checks and mandatory security protocols of a combat-class spaceship. Eddie can bring his Colt Mark-Eight pistol and ancient zippo lighter aboard without either getting confiscated. (He always gets stopped for mandatory security searches in transit. ‘Random’ his fucking ass. Pennsylvania Fivers must have a specific scent to them.)

Science vessel sounds much fancier than the reality. It’s actually a slightly outdated Class-B Scouting Hulk, with budget machinery plugged into all the holes and a new HORNET engine under the bonnet. Let it never be said that Banika Limited won’t fork out for their important research endeavours. (Ha-fucking-ha. They’re a pretty terrible company but there’s worse ones to work for, ones with frankly astoundingly high worker fatality rates, naming no double barrel names.)

It’s got a fancy prototype AI working all the interfaces, at least, uploaded along with some new operating hardware the company installed before the crew arrived.

It can be a Class-D Shuttle from the arse end of Sector Sixteen for all Eddie cares. So long as he knows how it works and can fix any issues that might arise, he’s fine.

The two-year voyage goes something like this: boring, boring, eyestrain, ran out of rehydratable tomatoes, somebody’s birthday, problem with airlock G-3, boring, boring, boring.

Six months left to go.

They’re almost at the turning point, the final area of space to scan before heading homeward bound. The trip back will be a lot faster, not having to search every new hunk of rock for life signs.

That’s their mission. Bring Banika back some cool fauna to play with. Or at least put in a vat and name after some CEO for a scientific wank session.

Preferably intelligent, capable of communication. But not too intelligent, with a culture humanity can’t exploit without a fun little war or twelve. Something that looks at their shuttlecraft landing on its planet with three wide eyes and scuttles into the bushes.

They’re all kitted out for such an encounter, despite no such luck bringing them one. (Which a certain engineer is secretly thankful for. He likes an easy, no-trouble mission, just about worth the shit pay. It’ll tide him over nicely until the next job arrives.)

Besides the ship itself, which is all bland beige panelling and grinding inner electricals, the tech they’ve been giving is fairly state of the art. (What Eddie’s seen of it. He’s not allowed access to the labs except to fix the built-in interfaces. And the coffee machine.)

They’ve got long-range scanners that pick up microscopic life signs, preservation vats that can support just about any organism in a state of perfect rest. They’ve got a SCOUTER Synthetic; an android that looks human enough to fool newly encountered species. Those things even give out artificial life signs of their own, with fake heartbeats and synthetic blood vessels. There’s a small holographic suite with some Terran Galactic Area locations to show off – only the choice bits, there’s no interactive map of Red Lion Three’s best outdoor fucking locations – and an armoury collecting dust on one of the lower decks. You know, in case the situation turns hostile.

It’s all very fascinating and Eddie would love to work with those kinds of tools. (Not the guns, he’s well-acquainted with those.) He’d handle them with such care, he’s always daydreamed about having a scientific career.

Too bad, he can’t. He gets an outdated handheld scanner that’s always on the fritz and his trusty industrial-grade wrench.

It’s not the worst thing about his job, not by a long stretch.

The worst thing about his job is Captain Andrew Haldane, ship’s commanding officer.

Man’s a fucking _tool_.

Arrogant, selfish, always smoothing his hair back. It’s slicked off his forehead with gel, turning the blond to a mousy grey colour. He’s handsome, sure, but his eyes are full of cruelty and he’s got a grating Boston-Vega accent. He wears a creepy moustache that hides his predatory smile, always chuckling at others’ misfortune and bragging about how the company used his likeness for some of their synthetics.

Kind of guy who smirks at the younger, more naïve members of his crew and asks if they’ll sit with him in the senior officer’s dining room. His treat.

Everybody knows how that ‘treat’ ends; with young men and women sat back in the grimy regular canteen, being mocked mercilessly by their fellow officers while they pick dejectedly at their plates. Their captain’s moved swiftly on to the next person he can woo with power and promises. He’s left a trail of crude jokes and purposely embarrassing stories at their expense in his wake. What a cunt.

Eddie would feel bad for those foolish enough to be charmed by their dick of a captain, if anyone on this ship ever showed him an ounce of sympathy. He shrugs into his rehydrated mash potato – H2O ratio was off and it’s hard as cardboard – and keeps to himself. Those kids will be laughing at the next person to get hoodwinked, same as the rest.

No sympathy allowed. They can all be dicks about it together.

They should try Eddie’s method. Sitting alone at the canteen table with the wonky leg, where you constantly have to re-balance your tray to keep the food from slipping. His solitude is by his own choice, he claims.

He’s a fucking liar.

Eddie’s not exactly the favourite engineer on the TSS Peleliu. Being a Lieutenant (First Class) from the Terran Marines doesn’t mean much when everybody else is a Tech-Colonel or above. Nobody wants to be friends with the guy nicknamed ‘Hillbilly’, who keeps the coffee machine from spurting over their uniforms and makes the least credits-per-hour.

Whatever, there’s only six months left of the voyage. He’d much rather chat with the ship’s Automated Computer and Key Artificial Consciousness Keeper, anyway. (Or ‘ACK ACK’, for short.)

That guy is nice to him. ‘Guy’ in the broadest sense, because he has a man’s voice.

Eddie’s formed somewhat of a relationship with the AI over the last eighteen months.

It’s true humans will bond with just about _anything_.

Eddie’s got a name for his wrench – Bill, after a scrappy recruit back in his TMEC company who twisted his balls like a wrench sometimes – and he’s friends with the ship’s computer.

How truly sad. He must be very lonely.

That’s what Captain Haldane says, anyway. As if his opinion is valued by anyone worth a lick of spit. It’s a shame everyone else on this ship is desperate to suck his cock for the chance at promotion. Science vessels are just full of dicks, aren’t they. All overpaid and underworked.

Eddie keeps these cutting remarks to himself, behind a stiff “Yes’ir” and the occasional nod.

He twists Bill to tighten up the final bolt. The metal creaks and settles. On his ass, crammed inside an electrical hatch with a frankly dangerous amount of flashing lights around him, the engineer sighs. He sits back for the first time in several minutes, certain he’s finally fixed the problem.

“Andy, can you ease the power up on module four f’ me, please?” He huffs.

Oh, that’s another name he’s given out. It was an old joke about how Ack Ack would make a better captain than their human one, taken to a ridiculous extreme. (Only knowing Captain Haldane as ‘captain’ or ‘massive cunt’ means there’s no association with the nickname in practice.)

A little less depressing than naming a wrench, he’d say, though some might beg to differ. It’s still treating a collecting of wires and code as a person.

But wrenches don’t talk back so Eddie thinks that argument can blow him.

“Increasing power on module four now, lieutenant.” Comes the chipper reply, echoing seemingly from nowhere.

Lights flash across the interface Hillbilly has just replaced. Slowly, the readings flicker and stabilise, marking another job completed. He sighs contently and turns his eyes upward. He finds an uncomfortably close ceiling and wires brushing his forehead.

“Thanks.” He says. “Think that’ll do it.”

“You’re welcome, lieutenant.” Ack Ack replies. “Though I advise leaving this section of internals as soon as possible, the temperature isn’t good for you.”

Eddie wipes the sweat from his brow, like the AI can see him. He supposes it can, capable of tracking even a minute spike in his heartbeat.

Andy’s seen him sweat enough, it shouldn’t bother either of them.

“Y’ worry too much.” Hillbilly chuckles. He flicks the wall panel with his finger.

“I care about your safety, Edward.” Ack Ack replies. “I will do everything in my power to ensure you have a safe voyage.”

How sweet. It has Eddie grinning crookedly, patting the panel in apology. (He hasn’t the heart to tell the AI that what few friends he has call him ‘Eddie’. It seems mean after repeatedly asking to be called by his first name. Andy’s trying his best, formality must be in his programming.)

Hillbilly does as he’s told and starts crawling back out the maintenance hatch.

Sometimes, Eddie really wishes he was getting some on this shitty job excursion.

The marines had been an awful experience on a lot of counts, but it sure wasn’t _dry_. There’d been guys from all ten corners of Terran Space marching at his side, making his throat tighten and his teeth worry his bottom lip. That illicit playground of extracurricular activities had been _overflowing_. (Almost made up for all the bleeding and killing.)

He misses that, lying alone on his single-birth bed. Ugly thing that is, cut into the wall barely two feet from the scuffed plastic floor. The mattress is thin and cheap; the photographs he has Zilto-tacked to the panelled wall keep falling on him whilst he sleeps.

Pictures of nothing in particular. Him and his old Gunny – Elmo Haney – his mentor, best friend, and woeful heterosexual. A couple of group shots of King Company, including the namesake of his trusty wrench. (He hopes those kids are doing okay but he wouldn’t bet on it.) A postcard or two from any of the aforementioned. Couple of snippets cut from beefcake magazines that aren’t too explicit to put up, and a small poster for the Freaky Fivers battlemech team.

Standard stuff. It brightens up the tiny quarters a bit.

It doesn’t inspire much arousal, so Eddie closes his eyes, despite the darkness of the room. Only the dim strip lights around the ceiling are on and buzzing. (Maybe he doesn’t like the idea of Haney watching him.)

Arm shoved under the blanket, Hillbilly tries to imagine more exciting times than these. Bars on Station Gamma-Two and those _insane_ beaches on Pavuvura. The sand had been dark blue and soft like cotton, the waters bubbling pink and tasting sweet. (Highly unadvisable to drink in large quantities but fine to swim in. And fuck in, too, but they keep that information off the pamphlet.)

He grunts softly, strokes firm and slow as he tries to coax himself upright.

That works for a moment, grunt turning to satisfied hum as his length begins to flesh out. It feels good, growing flush and stiff under his fingers.

Then he remembers how much better it felt to have someone else helping him. He chases the thought, searching for a face to attach to that enjoyment. Someone who he can imagine with their hands on him now, smiling down mischievously as they play with his cock.

No person appears. For all the fun he’d had in the marines, none of it had lasted. None of his partners had lasted. Repeated visits to their bunks, some of them, but then they’d be redeployed elsewhere.

People don’t see a future with the man from Red Lion Three, with the clunky accent and pitiful eight-year diploma. There’s only rocky hillsides, outdated home machinery, and a ‘simple life’ reflected in Eddie’s optimistic smile when he asks if they’ll call him.

That smile doesn’t exist anymore. He’d stopped asking a long time ago.

His mind drifts miserably to the beige panels of his current location, unable to stave it off. His firm strokes become desperate and a waste of time. He thinks of the laughter of his captain, the grimy canteen trays, his busted scanner.

And Ack Ack, too. He thinks about their lengthy conversations, work related at first, then not so. Hillbilly frowns deeply and opens his eyes.

“Ack Ack?” He grunts out.

There’s a beat of silence where he wonders if the AI has gone to sleep. It’s late in the day-cycle, only the night shift are about. People who’ll need their valiant ship’s computer. A computer that, as the name implies, doesn’t sleep.

“Yes, lieutenant.” Ack Ack replies, electronic voice filling the darkness.

Eddie kicks himself for even considering the AI would be asleep. Of course he wouldn’t, what kind of engineer doesn’t know their vessel’s most integral working system. What kind of _person_ , thick as they come, thinks a computer ‘sleeps’.

Scarier questions beg for attention, Hillbilly’s hand fisting guiltily in the sheets.

“Y’ been there long?” He chuckles nervously.

Again, acting like Andy is a person who can be present or not. He’s in the fucking walls, he’s literally everywhere.

A thought that doesn’t explain the second, longer pause that follows.

“You summoned me, Edward.” Ack Ack says carefully.

He gives no more explanation.

Were he a person and a physical friend of Eddie’s – which the engineer reminds himself isn’t the case, much as he’d like it to be – he might say Andy sounds like he’s deflecting. There’s a hesitance in his confident and authoritative tone.

It’s all in Eddie’s imagination. Otherwise, he’ll have to consider all the times he’s been successful at getting his cock hard, all the silent watching his AI buddy may have done.

“Sorry.” Hillbilly mumbles. His huff is rough and embarrassed. “Didn’t mean t’ disturb you.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” Ack Ack replies, soothing over the room. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

 _Yes_.

Well, there’s certainly something he’d like help with. Whether the AI can provide is another question entirely. Endearingly, he’d probably try to assist if requested. Project some erotic material across the bedside interface or put on some music, that kind of thing.

The exact opposite of helpful.

“Not somethin’ friends are s’posed t’ help each other with.” Eddie laughs fondly. His fingers rub against his eyes and he shakes his head at his own joke. Fucking moron.

Strangely, the term isn’t corrected. “Friends are supposed to help each other whenever able.” Andy replies affectionately.

Unconsciously, Hillbilly glances up at the top of his bunk. (He’s never pinpointed why he feels the AI is above him of all places.) Grey plastic panels stare back but he smiles anyway.

“Thanks, Andy.” He mutters. “I’ll let y’know if I think of anythin’.”

It’s better than nothing, those electronic assurances, and he’s pretty used to nothing. His sigh is tired as he rolls onto his side, tugging the blanket up his chest. As he closes his eyes, Ack Ack speaks.

“Goodnight, Edward.” He says. He receives a grunt of acknowledgement.

The room is left quiet as the engineer is left to sleep. He finds the peace he’d been hoping something physical might provide.

If Andy thinks they’re friends, then Eddie can live with whatever ridicule the relationship might evoke.

Eighteen months and no specimens found have left Eddie with a lot of reading time.

He doesn’t man the engines as that requires advanced qualifications – _expensive_ qualifications – though he is familiar with their theoretical mechanisms. His job is to keep everything human beings interact with working, the interfaces and doors and airlocks and lights. Everything that, should they stop, would descend the ship into chaos. (Seriously. Nobody believes it because nobody thinks about it. They think the air filtration system runs itself.)

The ship’s in good enough shape that he isn’t needed most evenings. He can read or look at schematics or watch old battlemech games or masturbate.

Or talk to Ack Ack. He feels a little bad for doing it, until he remembers the AI is capable of maintaining thousands of conversations at once. Doesn’t do much for Hillbilly’s self-esteem that, but it does erase the guilt of taking up the computer’s valuable time.

“What happens t’ you, when we get back t’ Melbourne Station?” He asks, reclining against his bunk. “An’ the mission ends.”

“That depends.” Ack Ack replies. “A secondary objective of our voyage is to test my abilities as a ship’s computer. I’m a prototype, after all.”

Nothing about him is remotely prototypical. He’s steered this ship to the deepest reaches of space, since their captain is concerned with other things. What’s not to love.

“If our mission goes well and I receive praise from our senior officers, I suppose I will be duplicated and then uploaded into another ship.” Andy muses. He sounds casual about the idea.

“An’ if our mission goes bad?” Eddie asks. “And y’ get a two-star review?”

A pause. A cruel silence, during which he realises he doesn’t want the answer. It can’t be good, knowing Banika Limited’s approach to company property.

“Then I will be deleted.” Andy replies. His electronic voice sounds colder than before, like he’s minimising the damage of the statement. “Parts of my hardware may be broken down for inspection but the code that makes up what is essentially me will be erased.”

Exactly as expected. Exactly what Hillbilly doesn’t want to hear. The callousness weighs on his heart, the cruelty that stretches from his home all the way out here. Nothing is sacred and he learnt that a long time ago. How is he still surprised, after everything he’s done and seen.

“That’s sad.” He mutters, because it is.

Ack Ack’s voice is sympathetic, despite its clarity. “Why is it sad, Edward?” He asks innocently.

Eddie grunts. A nasty sound that he hopes the AI registers as unimpressed. “Don’t play dumb.” He says curtly. “Y’know why.”

Correct, the supercomputer with a beyond-photographic memory does know why. Otherwise, they’ve got bigger problems.

“Because you’ve grown attached to me during our time together.” Andy deduces.

Right on the money, as always. The engineer’s not going to argue or play up some excuse. The only word he resents is ‘attached’, with its clinical connotations. It doesn’t sum up his feelings; he’s not sure many explanations can.

“I like talkin’ t’ you.” He murmurs.

That’s true. It’s not everything, but it’s a start and as succinct as he can make it. It’s followed by a short sigh and a scratch of his jaw.

“I think-” Andy says, a beat punctuating his words, “-I also like talking to you, Edward.”

Gentle laughter erupts from the bunk. Eddie’s amused and he knocks his fist against the wall playfully.

“You _think_?” He scoffs. He’s not really offended. “Gee, thanks. Glad t’ know I’m such mediocre company.”

There’s that distinct pause between the sarcastic gratitude and the AI’s reply. Far from the expected nine-million calculations per second he’s capable of making. A quiet that human beings use when they’re thinking of a reply.

“I _do_ enjoy our conversations.” Ack Ack muses eventually. “As much as a machine is capable of enjoying things.”

The laughter fades and leaves a hollowness in Hillbilly’s chest. The sound drifts into an unhappy exhale, his eyes wandering over the blanket beneath his body. He plays with the fabric.

“I think supercomputers can enjoy whatever they want.” He mumbles.

Pathetic and a conversational sedative that it is, it’s all he’s got. He thinks a lot of things but voices very few of them. Fear of mockery locks them behind his steel gaze and cold expression, his animated features smothered to fit the persona required. The stern, obedient marine – or equivalent – whose opinion will be requested if wanted.

It’s rarely wanted.

“The human brain is a supercomputer as of itself.” Andy explains, filling the gaps his conversation partner has left. He’s smart like that, recognising when Eddie wants the silence filled with something, anything. “It’s the one humanity is most familiar with. Designing artificial intelligences to mimic the human mind results in the strongest computers, ones that adapt and learn at an accelerated capacity. The closer to human, the better.”

Clearly, close enough. Hillbilly’s fooled. Maybe fooled is the wrong word; sympathetic, perhaps. Drawn into feelings for a disembodied voice that sounds and acts and talks like any other person does.

“My programming is actually relatively compact, allowing me to constantly develop as a human being can.” Ack Ack continues. He always sounds thrilled to talk about this part of himself, the part that is only a razor-thin gap away from humanity. “I have what some might call a personality. I can develop opinions, emotions, ambitions, desires... None of which are pre-programmed, though they may be influenced by coding. It means I can make faster decisions because I absorb everything for the sake of learning, including that which might be... _detrimental_.”

Now, there’s a word to describe humanity. _Detrimental_.

To themselves, to their environment, to each other. To science and politics and progression in all areas. There are a million disgusting traits and half of them are present in the crew of this ship alone. The cruelty of their captain and the coldness of their scientists, not to mention Eddie himself.

He wonders what detrimental traits Andy may have picked up from him. He can name so many.

“I sense you’re growing bored of this conversation, lieutenant.” The AI says.

Eddie grunts, realising he’s been silent all this time.

“No, no. Not bored.” He hums, hoping his honesty is clear. He’ll feel rotten if he makes it seem like he only wants Ack Ack to listen to him talk, rather than respond in turn.

The computer waits patiently for a follow-up.

“Just sad.” Hillbilly says.

His fingers run over his standard-issue boilersuit, across the Banika logo on his chest along with E. JONES. There are lieutenant pips stitched onto his shoulders that make him sigh when he sees them in the mirror. He won’t be wearing this ensemble much longer. He won’t miss it, happy to change back into his beige dungarees and worn t-shirt from Red Lion Three.

“I’ll miss ya’.” He adds quietly.

Voicing his thoughts, rare that that is. He’s comfortable giving them to Ack Ack. The AI has never once spat them back in his face; his responses are always kind, encouraging, humorous.

He’s good like that.

“I’ll miss you too, Edward.” Andy replies.

Despite the sadness of the topic, it makes Hillbilly smile.

The last company-mandated stop, mentioned by name on the navigation register, is planet G11-6. Already discovered by Weyland-Yutani Corporation over a decade or so ago, hence the predesignated serial code. Nothing of interest was reported. Just a hunk of rock with a heavy atmosphere and elevated toxicity.

Apparently, it’s worth scanning for life. Or maybe it’s a good end-marker, the point at which turning around is a bright idea. A hypothetical ‘ _if you’re scanning this worthless piece of shit, you’ve gone too far_ ’ deal.

Banika probably hopes they don’t make it this far, that they turn around early with some juicy fauna to provide. Bully for them.

By the time Eddie’s informed that life signs _were_ detected, under the surface in some kind of cave system, the away team’s already boarding the shuttle. He only knows because they ask him for diagnostic checks on the remaining transit craft, in case they want to bring back multiple specimens. He checks the shuttles – or rechecks, because everything is fine and exactly how he fucking left it – then calls it a day.

That away team comes back real fast. Their return isn’t broadcast ship-wide.

Eddie only knows because his interface flashes with an automatic alert, telling him a shuttle has recently docked. It’s 02:00 in the day-cycle and he was asleep. Maintenance unfortunately being his job, he groans and rolls out of bed. Pulls his boilersuit on, grabs Bill, and heads towards the flight deck.

On his leisurely walk down, wondering if he’ll find a busted-up shuttle craft that’s the reason for the hasty return, a squeaking makes him falter. The sound of stretcher wheels is followed by a barked order – “Out of the way, _Jones!_ ” – as their senior medical officer comes barrelling down the corridor.

Marine instincts have Hillbilly slamming his back against the side wall, pressed out the way of the approaching group. Security personnel lead, the screeching medical trolley following with the wounded party on top. The rest of the away team, still in the underlayers of their spacesuits, bring up the rear. They look pale.

As the group rushes by, Eddie keeps quiet. He has no questions on his tongue because this is above his paygrade and he can guess what’s going on. Shuttle crash, impact wound, nothing new.

Except, when he glances at the stretcher as it passes, he can glimpse the person lying on their back. He blinks and they’ve disappeared up the corridor, but in the moment, he recoils. Tense shoulders and deep scowl and sense of physical disgust. He’s can’t recognise the injured crewmember, can’t see any features beyond their hair colour.

There’s _something_ on their face.

Despite being summoned, Eddie’s stopped by security in the hall leading to the shuttle hanger. They rudely turn him around and send him back the way he came.

Being tall, Hillbilly can peer over their shoulders while they’re ordering him about. Through the viewing window in the hanger door, he can see a science team – some of their head technical officers – running elaborate scanning equipment over the shuttle that returned.

The vehicle isn’t damaged. There’s nothing amiss. Yet it reminds Eddie of a crime scene, all taped off with the crewmembers in filtration masks and gloves.

He stops peering and heads back to his quarters.

Tech-Colonel Mackenzie, the member of the away team injured in their excursion, recovers by the next morning. He’s up and about and even in the canteen recounting his embellished story to his table. Under a barely stifled whisper, as it’s classified information until further notice. (He clears his throat multiple times, claiming the toxic atmosphere did a number on him. The window on his spacesuit broke, apparently, which is rich. If that actually happened, he’d be dead.)

A perfect fit for the entire canteen to eavesdrop on, then.

Except Eddie, who doesn’t care.

He picks at his fried chicken and finds he can’t stomach a single bite. The leathery skin reminds him of what he saw, the thing that was wrapped around Mackenzie’s head. He tosses his cutlery down and throws the food in the organic recycle collector. Unlike him to waste a meal, but he can’t help it.

He asks Ack Ack about it, reclining on his bunk as usual. He tries to be casual.

“So,” Eddie asks, rolling his tongue about his mouth, “Y’know what really happened with Mackenzie, besides him spinnin’ bullshit?”

The pause he receives isn’t endearing. He glances up, frowning at the silence.

“Ack Ack?” He presses. It’s unusual, even impossible, that he hasn’t been heard.

And truly strange he hasn’t received a response.

“I’m unsure what to tell you, Edward.” Andy finally replies. In person-terms, he does sound uncertain. Definitely unlike himself. “After reviewing the protocols, I can’t reveal any real information. Any explanation I give will be… confusing.”

That settles Hillbilly’s nerves, if only by placing him back in familiar territory. The sensation of being the lowest ranking member of the crew, one rung above the automated ass-wipe replacement devices only by virtue of possessing a brain. Never good enough, he’s distinctly aware.

It’s a lie to say he isn’t hurt by the words. Used to the sentiment as he is, it’s not a reminder he’s ever gotten from Ack Ack before. Diplomatic as the AI is – and Eddie knows he’s doing his best, that he also has a job to do, there’s no judgement behind it – the sting remains.

“Whatever.” The engineer huffs. It’s a dismissal, of sorts.

Except Andy continues. The uncertainty in his voice has vanished, replaced by heavy-handed authority.

“Regardless of what happens with Tech-Colonel Mackenzie,” He says, “I strongly recommend that you remain in your quarters for the time being, Lieutenant Jones.”

With a blink, Hillbilly jerks his head upwards. For all his scowling and tightly pressed lips, his wide eyes give away his unease.

Tech-Colonel (Second Class) Robert Mackenzie is recorded as deceased fifteen hours later, found dead in his quarters. His time of death is noted as seven hours before discovery, shortly after he went to bed, complaining about chest pains.

His cause of death is listed as Unknown.


	2. Chapter 2

In true trickle-down fashion, Eddie doesn’t find out Mackenzie’s dead until the next morning.

He wakes up in his usual state of grumpiness, significantly worsened by the yellow flashing lights and annoying beeps of his interfaces. An alert demands his attention, his finger hovering over it as he reads.

YELLOW ALERT stares back. ALL NON-ESSENTIAL PERSONNEL MUST REMAIN ON HABITATION DECKS.

With a blink, grunt, and press of his thumb, the message vanishes.

Fuck that. Hillbilly rolls over and goes back to sleep.

The canteen’s on the habitation deck. His _specific_ habitation deck, naturally, as the bottom tier of living quarters. (He lives in a Goddamn shoebox. Top it off with noise from the kitchen and rec room down the corridor, and you’ve got a truly loathsome arrangement.) Hillbilly heads there after pulling on his boilersuit. He scrubs his eyes to force away the leathery creature he glimpsed in his dreams.

Sitting at his wonky table alone and scoffing down today’s ration-grade pasta-substitute – which doesn’t remind him of any alien lifeform he may have imagined – the engineer can hear the sniffling from the other side of the room. Every sobbed word reaches his ears, bringing his chewing to a stop.

Mackenzie’s dead. Word is he picked up some kind of virus – his spacesuit visor really _had_ been damaged – and had been found in his quarters yesterday. Hence the confinement to habitation decks and emptiness of the normally full canteen. Nobody wants to catch space-rabies.

Except, between his wails, the technician at the centre of the discussion isn’t recounting some viral tragedy. He claims he found Mackenzie lying on his bed himself and what’s he’s describing sounds closer to a murder scene. Gore over the floor, his chest busted open, popped like a balloon. His ribs were sticking out.

Eddie chugs his synthetic orange juice – legally distinct from the ancient fruit – and gets the fuck out of there.

When he tries to speak to Andy about what’s going on, he gets only clipped answers. Brief responses and nothing more. The kind a lowly maintenance engineer should expect from the ship’s busy AI.

Eddie takes the hint. He stops asking.

The canteen is declared off-limits. Some joker raided the kitchen, taking off with the entire crew’s food for that day.

Four days of habitation deck confinement and people start to go missing.

Essential personnel, the ones who head down to the maintenance decks to do their important diagnostics. They don’t come back to their quarters, despite being instructed to return immediately.

Lucky for Eddie, finding missing crewmates isn’t his job. That’s security’s gambit, hulking over-protected psudo-cops that they are. Assholes through and through. (Different assholes to the science officers and technicians. Less laugh-at-your-stupidity, more beat-you-up-in-the-rec-room.)

They get sent down as a team to see what secret book club is being held by all these missing technicians, probably bored of being stuck on their habitation decks. That’s about a week into this whole affair.

The security team doesn’t come back.

First, the maintenance decks go dark, blacked out on all system interfaces as the sensors inside fail.

Then the lights start flickering.

Eddie knows emergency systems activating. He recognises the minimal lighting and hiss of his door sealing shut.

He scrambles out of bed but even his reflexes aren’t that fast. He stumbles over his boilersuit before he reaches the door, his palms slamming against the panels. It’s already closed. The usually green light, signifying the motion detector’s active, is red. So is the voice activation light.

It’s all red. The door doesn’t slide open, even with a hand pressing against it.

“Ack Ack, what the fuck is goin’ on?” Hillbilly grunts, reaching down to the manual open button.

His fingers hammer it repeatedly, then his palm, then his fist for a final try. Nothing happens. Close enough to press his nose against the hexagonal porthole – no privacy on this ship for guys like him – he can glimpse the emergency clamps on the other side.

He’s sealed in. Outside, the corridor is dark besides the alarm lights that swivel and flash. Barely a sound passes through the locked containment of his quarters, only the faintest echo of what he knows to be a blaring siren.

Everything’s flashing red.

“Ack Ack!” He cries, teeth grinding as rising panic fuels his anger. “Ack Ack, open the damn door!”

An automated voice echoes around the room, pre-recorded for alert messages. Gratingly electronic and nothing like Ack Ack’s smooth Beta-Lawrence tones. (Eddie asked about that once, why the AI has that particular accent. Andy explained that company research rated the Beta-Lawrence dialect number one out of over two hundred potential voice codes, with a ninety-nine percent approval. By contrast, Red Lion Three’s accent didn’t even make the sample list.)

“Manual door overrides disabled.” The message drones. “Habitation cell D-32, residence; Lieutenant Jones, E. secured under emergency containment protocol. Please, wait for assistance.”

“Maintenance override! Maintenance override!” Hillbilly snarls, yanking himself away from the door. He tries his best to speak clearly. “Passcode lucky! Four! Bravo! Two!”

“Maintenance overrides disabled.” That grinding voice repeats. “Please, wait for assistance.”

Grabbing his wrench from the floor, the engineer rips the access panel from its place by the entrance. He finds familiar wires and breaker leavers. Bare foot on the wall and Bill in hand, he frees the safety bolt and twists the manual handle. Down and up, then again. Each time, a loud beep follows. Nothing changes.

The door remains sealed. Eddie yells in frustration, a drawn-out and snarling cry as he throws his wrench at the porthole. Bill clatters to the floor and skids to hit the back wall. It doesn’t leave a dent.

“Fuck…!” He huffs out.

Panting from the fear, exertion, the sweat in his hair as he runs a hand through it, Hillbilly swallows. His fists rest against his thighs, gripping the fabric of his boxers.

“Andy!” He begs. “Please, answer me!”

Beyond the porthole, the red alarms continue to flash. He receives no response.

Three days alone. No orders, no explanation, no Ack Ack.

He mopes for a bit of it, an hour or two at the start. Curls up in his boxers on the floor, knees to his chest as he pulls at his curls. Getting over the shock, that’s all. This isn’t something he was looking to replicate from his marine days. (This is exactly what he’d left behind. He couldn’t do it anymore.)

After a hair-pulling, teeth-grinding, muffled-screaming session, Eddie’s back on his feet.

His quarters have a bathroom and it’s working, for now. He collects water from the tap in every receptacle he has, gathers up the snacks from his locker, and gets to work itemising. Rations are piled on his desk, ready for use. Then he has a crack at the interfaces.

He tries opening up the ship’s common logs from this week. Access Denied. He tries pulling up the scans of the habitation and other decks. Access Denied. He tries to log directly into the ACK ACK system to manually summon him. Access Denied.

Access Denied. Access Denied. Access Denied.

He can’t even switch the regular lights back on.

In true hillbilly fashion, Eddie punches the interface attached to his desk. He cracks the glass. Doesn’t matter, something tells him he won’t be called to fix it.

He checks the porthole in his door regularly. At first, he sees people running by. (When he beats against the glass, begging them for help, they either don’t see or choose to ignore him. One man apologises, his mouth moving over the word as he flees the scene. It would break Eddie’s heart if it didn’t simply make him angrier.) People become persons, two or three, the last to leave their recommended or forced confinement. Habitation Deck D must be empty by now.

How they got their quarters’ doors working, he can’t say. He chalks it up to bad luck on his part. He has a lot of that.

From there, Hillbilly focuses on other things. He resigns himself to the knowledge that chaos has taken over. Nobody will be freeing him, and no information will convince him to stay put, either.

He eats what he needs, straps everything he can carry to his tool belt, and sips his water. Fieldstrips his Colt Mark-Eight and makes sure the bullet pulse is tweaked to maximum force. Masterfully pieces it back together, loads the clip, and snaps the slide into place. Any unnecessary weight is stripped from his utility harness, his pockets stuffed with the paper previously tacked over his bunk. Postcards and photographs are kept; he leaves the sports poster and magazine cut-outs. He flicks the lid of his zippo back and forth, open and closed, but never thumbs the wheel.

Can’t be wasting fuel. (He uses his blowtorch to light his cigarettes instead. Air filtration systems are still online, thanks emergency systems.)

The real work goes from there. A small ion blowtorch, a miniature flashlight, his old communications earpiece, and a metal band yanked off the useless door override panel. Those are the ingredients, time for the impromptu recipe. The light flashes in his eyes, bright and burning. He welds it all together in silence.

Everything is silent. Only that distant alarm echoes beyond the sealed exit. He doesn’t talk to himself, not needing the encouragement.

Bending down to check his reflection, Hillbilly adjusts his handmade headtorch-stroke-earpiece-relay. He’s worked on the wires; his scanner no longer bleeps loudly where everyone can hear. It’s all fed into his right ear now, his left balancing the flashlight that’ll guide him through the dark.

He grunts sadly. He needs a shave.

He tugs the zipper up his boilersuit and straps on his utility harness, rigged over his shoulders to hold up the additions to his belt. (A specifically chosen boilersuit from his locker. His prettiest one, saved for special occasions. Sad as that is, having work overalls as your finest date-night attire; he wants to die in the closest thing he has to a clean uniform.) He clips Bill to his hip, takes his scanner in one hand and his pistol in the other.

Whatever is happening here isn’t some ‘virus’. Eddie knows what he saw on Mackenzie’s face. (He hopes that’s all they're dealing with, leathery little crab things. He won’t bet on it.)

Whatever he encounters, he’s prepared. He has to believe that.

There isn’t any chance of keeping him in here. No pre-coded protocols or captain’s orders or supercomputer procedures can manage that. He’s a maintenance engineer, and a stubborn one too.

With a final glance through the door window, checking for anyone else and finding an empty corridor, Hillbilly gets down on his knees. The maintenance hatch he’s always known he can use is cut from the wall. Even with its surface outlined by a blowtorch, it stubbornly refuses to move.

On his ass and holding the desk, the engineer slams his boots against the thing.

“Sorry, Andy. Y’ know me.” Eddie mutters as the vent clatters loose, mercilessly kicked to death. “Gotta get m’ ringside seat f’ the show.”

He’s definitely gotten used to talking to the AI, always in his constant company.

Adjusting his head torch and earpiece, Hillbilly steels himself with a nod. He crawls into the vent.

The ship looks an even greater state than usual, hunk of shit that it is.

Habitation Deck D, where Eddie crawls out the nearest maintenance hatch, is deserted. The kind of abandoned where everyone left in a hurry.

Trolleys are upturned, papers litter the floor. Doors are wedged shut with any number of items or barricaded with others. Chairs are broken in the hallways and porthole windows smashed. Every storage locker is either open or has its front ripped off the hinges, ransacked.

Eddie takes one step at a time.

His boots are silent as he treads carefully through the empty hall. It’s a skill he’s cultivated on what he might say were more dangerous excursions. Shifting through rocky hillside terrain waiting to catch a bullet, and he’s not talking about Red Lion Three. He moves quickly and quietly, leading his way around corners pistol-first.

All the while, the sirens blare and the red lights spin.

“Red Alert. Red Alert. All personnel to their emergency stations.” The pre-recorded message decrees. “Red Alert. Red Alert. Do not attempt to gather your belongings, proceed immediately to emergency stations.”

No evacuation order, then. Which is good, the ship’s in no structural danger. And bad, because everybody he saw pass his quarters’ window was in a hurry. If they weren’t running to somewhere, then they were running _from_ something.

Eddie leaves Habitation Deck D.

He passes the recreational room, ransacked as per. The canteen is the same, though he can glimpse the cordoned off kitchen beyond the viewing windows. When they said it had been ‘raided’, they were talking bullshit. Place looks like a hurricane tore through it, every vat of food emptied and overturned. Something was hungry.

Both areas are emptier than Hillbilly’s ever seen them.

He tries the elevator first, hoping to get up to the top command decks and find someone with more information than he. No dice. The transit station is the same. Everything’s offline.

Holstering his pistol under his arm and clipping his scanner to his belt, the engineer squats down by the nearest maintenance hatch. Surprisingly, he doesn’t have to kick this one open. It slides back when he nears it, not even needing the manual button push like normal. So much for containment protocols.

Humming suspiciously, Eddie gets on all fours and starts crawling his way in.

“Elevators an’ transit cars are out, gotta use the stairs.” He whispers as he goes. “Or the vents.” He adds with a shrug and half a smile.

In his ear, he hears a soft beep. His communicator is active and the signal’s stable. It’s always good to check these things.

And, should he slip and fall to his death on one of the maintenance ladders, _well_. At least he’ll leave behind a boring audio log for someone to find.

By the time he climbs up through the habitation decks, briefly checking each one through a hatch or two, Eddie hasn’t seen a single person. His scanner doesn’t beep once.

Just abandoned rooms, smashed interfaces, flickering lights. Everything’s in disarray.

The maintenance hatches continue to open when they detect his motion, despite the few doors he uses being manual override only. He ascends steadily, pistol between his teeth when using ladders and in hand where he climbs the silent staircases.

He’s heading for the bridge.

If he glimpses any dark smears on the floor panels on his way, he chooses to ignore them.

Eventually, he enters the command decks. Checking them seems no more fruitful than habitation, so he leaves it. (Plus he’s certain he hears movement. Thumping, voices, bangs, maybe something else. Something worse. His scanner lights up like a Goddamn electrical grid, the beeping slow but annoying.)

A slam on the override button and the bridge door slides upwards, granting him access. Growing confident in the theory he’s alone here, this deck first to be abandoned judging by the state of it, he steps inside.

He climbs the steps onto the command platform, approaching the large viewing window that shows the expanse of space outside. Only several metres of reenforced plexiglass away. It’s not a sight Hillbilly’s enjoyed in his day to day, being a lower-decks worker or field marine.

It’s beautiful, the tiny stars and deep inky black. G11-6 can be seen in the distance, a dark swirling planet. It looks huge when they’re so close. Eddie walks past the command chairs and flashing interfaces, hypnotized by the view. He gazes at it for a second, captivated.

Space is vast and beautiful from behind the safety of a glass barrier.

He remembers where he is and what situation he’s in. He mentally kicks himself. Fucking moron. Pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head, the engineer turns around again.

He comes face to face with Captain Haldane, slouched in his command chair. Neck bent at an odd angle, blood smeared from his nose and one of his eyes. It’s seeped into his moustache. The piercing hole in his chest has pinned him to the seat, before he could even greet his killer.

It startles Eddie, sending him back a pace with a hissed “Jesus-!”. He settles himself with a slow exhale, closing his eyes to cover the gory scene.

Behind his eyelids, he shoves the erupting memories away. It’s been a while, but he can still perform. Compartmentalise, submerge, reboot. Open his eyes again and look back at the corpse of his captain, take another long inhale and absorb the horror a second time. It’s the numbing agent that works, forcing yourself to stare.

The engineer blinks. He watches the blood drip from the man’s dangling hand, pooling on the floor.

Flashlight on, Eddie widens his stance and carefully rotates, scanning the dark and shadowed corners of the room. His raised pistol traces the route of his eyes, running over the entire bridge. Several other corpses come into view, glimpsed in the beam and checked only once. Various gruesome positions, two slammed against the walls until their skulls split, a communications officer laying over his interface, face impaled on broken glass.

The entire command staff were present for the slaughter. Their killer is long gone.

Cautiously lowering his pistol, Hillbilly glances back at Haldane. No loss then.

He huffs out a sneer, though his heart isn’t in it. (It might have been a while since he’s seen death up close, but this isn’t someone he cares for. He won’t be mourning the ship’s least favourite officer and lackies for the sake of appearing compassionate.)

He scans over the deceased captain, comfortable with the sight. His gaze lands on the expensive and high-tech watch on the man’s wrists.

Waste not, want not.

Eddie squats down beside the chair. He detaches the item with ease. The proximity allows him a moment to squint at the wounding, the broken neck and split open ribs. From the splatters on the floor, whatever it was punched straight through the captain’s front. It slammed him back hard enough for death on impact and saved him from bleeding out. Lucky bastard. (He definitely did not deserve better.)

“Much obliged, Skipper.” Hillbilly huffs, flipping the bloody watch over in his palm as he straightens up.

He straps it around his wrist and tells himself it’s for the sake of restricted area access. A black lie indeed, considering those doors open with facial recognition and voice commands. Pulling his boilersuit cuff over the item is very telling of him.

Turning around, he steps over to the communication relays. His fingers move rapidly, filtering through to what he wants most. Access Denied doesn’t flash up with Haldane still logged on.

He’s searching for the ACK ACK emergency summons command.

“C’mon, Andy,” Eddie whispers to himself, “I need you…”

His earpiece crackles. A familiar voice appears.

“I’m… here, lieutenant.” Ack Ack replies.

God, does he sound tired. And _guilty_. 

Hand freezing over the keyboard, Hillbilly instinctively turns his head towards the sound. A fraction to the right, the ear the AI’s talking into. His frown is sympathetic but not impressed. He waits.

Understanding that he probably deserves the silent treatment, Andy quickly relents. “I’ve been tracking you since you left your quarters.” He clarifies. The implication that he could have spoken at any time during that trip is left unsaid.

Eddie grunts. “That explains the polite maintenance hatches.”

Why else would the motion sensors be active for the specific route he needed. Bill hadn’t gotten much use, what with Ack Ack guiding the way. Helpful as ever.

“I’d hoped you and the rest of the crew would obey the quarantine protocols.” He admits. “But I wasn’t going to let you make the journey here unaided.”

“Much obliged.” The engineer mutters. His fingers are back on the keyboard, punching in a different request. “Would’ve appreciated a lil’ company whilst I was locked up, however.”

That signature pause, that only he is privy to, returns. Andy considers something, silent whilst the clacking of the keys fills the room. He comes to a quick conclusion; this is no time for pleasantries.

“Edward, there’s operating hardware installed on his ship that I can’t access.” It’s a mix of confession and creeping panic, rattling the AI’s smooth tone. “With the commanding officers dead and the ship in chaos, I’ve no reason to keep anything from you-”

Green typeface flashing across Hillbilly’s eyes, he merely hums. He’s busy digging through the captain’s accessible archives.

“Well, y’ better start talkin’.” He muses. “I’m readin’ most of it already.”

He hasn’t forgiven the computer yet. Call him bitter.

“Edward, please-“ Andy begins, but is cut off by Eddie hitting the enter key.

An audio communication log flashes up and begins to play from the coms relay speaker. It’s Haldane’s irritating voice and is timestamped from over a week ago, the day Mackenzie was killed.

“ _Tape off the scene and make sure it's not touched until I get down there. This is to be kept under wraps; I want total silence. No more Mackenzie chatting shit in the canteen, hard as that'll be for him now... Last thing this ship needs is a panic. There’s only so many shuttles, you know._ ”

Both parties listen intently. There’s quiet besides the scratching of Hillbilly’s fingers against his stubble.

“ _Confine all non-essential personnel to habitation decks. Tell them it’s a safety precaution, tell them we think Mac caught some kind of virus. Make them scared to talk to one another._ ” There’s a beat where the captain reconsiders stopping there. “ _Oh, and if I find out anyone’s leaked this? I'll make them eat my fucking boot. Haldane out._ ”

“Bastard knew somethin’ was up.” Hillbilly sneers. He glances back at the chair behind him and its occupant.

Even contorted in death, Haldane continues to reach new lows. Refusing to act is an action of itself and all that. But moral philosophy isn’t required at this moment, so the engineer merely huffs. Fuck that guy. That’s his verdict. (He spits on the floor for good measure.)

Eyes back on the interface, he begins bringing up the communication readouts. Ack Ack is noticeably quiet, stewing in silence for fear of upsetting his crewmember all over again. Which is rich, or maybe just a fantasy; no supercomputer is scared of hurting a maintenance worker’s feelings.

Yet the AI doesn’t speak. Even as Eddie brings up the coms, Andy lets him read for himself and doesn’t push.

Tapping the screen thoughtfully, Hillbilly lets out a soft growl. There’s no signal, in or out. The ship’s disconnected from all contact, every transmission blocked. They’re stranded. A few extra button presses reveals the shuttles disabled as well.

Finally, Ack Ack speaks.

“Edward, I’m sorry for not contacting you sooner.” He says miserably. As any good leader can, he pushes on regardless. “But you need to listen to me; the protocols currently locking down this ship are not from Captain Haldane or myself. They’re pre-coded containment procedures that were triggered when the maintenance deck scans went down.”

Pre-coded containment procedures. Those are difficult to set up without a ship’s AI knowing, and harder still to lock said AI out of. Otherwise, companies can program vessels to fly straight into the sun on a whim. A likelier risk than people might think, considering corporations’ record of contempt for human life.

The best way to hardwire a system to lockdown – secretly and with no way for the system operator to fix it – is to make it dormant. A waiting trap, looking for a trigger.

Conspiracies, conspiracies. Eddie waves the thoughts away, despite him having the technical knowledge to support them. He’s paranoid, that’s all.

But the only other option is Andy’s lying to him.

“I’m locked out of the controls of almost all systems. Only the primary life support and basic maintenance functions are still under my influence.” The AI says.

There’s such honesty in his voice, begging to be understood, that it crumples Hillbilly’s expression. His scowl becomes pained and he can’t convince himself it’s a lie. Yes, he was left alone for a while, but Ack Ack had bigger concerns. Still has, in fact. The ship he’s part of isn’t obeying his commands and now there’s someone – _something_ – ripping his crew to pieces.

Eddie forgives him. It was a waste of time to pretend he wouldn’t.

“So, what now?” He asks. There’s determination and devotion filling his voice.

He stops searching for his own answers once he’s sees the shuttles and coms are disabled. That’s no way off and no help coming. Bad luck for him. He’ll let the supercomputer lead from here.

He trusts Andy, with his life if necessary. For whatever reason, the AI recognises this. He speaks clearly and confidently, as if he were laying a hand on his lieutenant’s shoulder. (If Hillbilly closes his eyes, he might think he’s back in the marines, receiving a battle plan from a trusted commander. Except he never had one of those.)

“I need you to access Lab G-8. It has the scans of Tech-Colonel Mackenzie, on his arrival and post-mortem.” The AI says. “I know no more about what we’re dealing with than you. My sensors are limited, I can track movement and life signatures but not much else.”

That pause. In a human being, it might be a sigh or a swallow.

“If I can kill or capture this intruder, I can save the ship.” Ack Ack mutters.

He sounds like he wants to add something else. He restrains himself.

“Please, Edward,” He breathes, the sound resonating in Eddie’s ear. “I need your help.”

To save the ship. Quite the task.

Yet Andy is speaking to him and only him. Relaying his words through his headpiece and keeping it from ship-wide speakers. He could have chosen anyone.

Perhaps he tried. Perhaps they ignored him, shook their heads, told him to fuck off. All likely.

Hillbilly would never. He’s thinking ahead, as all good combat officers do, though it’s not his own future he’s considering. (Heroics are no longer reserved for senior commanders.)

Save the ship, save the ship’s computer. That’s the goal he’s chasing.

Some might call that truly sad. He must be very lonely. It doesn’t matter if that’s true, if he hasn’t much else to live for. It doesn’t matter. (Besides, the person who said that about him is dead.)

Adjusting his headtorch, Eddie nods. He pretends to consider and voices none of his reasons.

“Alright.” He agrees. “Lead the way.”

There’s an unnatural sensation to knowing he can do something Ack Ack can’t.

On account of having a body, Eddie supposes. Either way, he’s able to manually retrieve the scans from their original interfaces with nothing but his maintenance knowledge and a trusty wrench.

Even with such a weighty objective on his shoulders, he feels confident creeping through the abandoned hallways. It’s easier with Andy beside him, even if he’s not physically there.

They reach Research Deck G. ‘They’ being Eddie, really, with conveniently opening hatches guiding his path. He hasn’t seen another person, though he’s seen plenty more bodies. The research decks are coated in debris, broken glass, and gore.

For the better, then, that nobody ever wanted to sit with him in the canteen. If they had, he might mourn the names on their torn boilersuits, splattered with bone fragments and pieces of their brain matter.

Andy talks to him religiously as they go. The AI must know the horrors his fleshy teammate is creeping past, able to scan for their presence.

This might be his way of helping. He wants to be a distraction, which is very sweet. Very stupid, too, and clearly forgetting Eddie’s better part of a decade in a frontline combat unit. (Which should be common knowledge between the two of them, thanks to uploaded personnel files.)

Chalk it up as sweet, anyway.

“I believe the creature responds primarily to sound, and secondarily to movement.” Ack Ack is explaining. “Security forces raided the armoury early on into containment, but their direct assaults were unsuccessful.”

His theories as to their enemy’s origins – the ‘creature’, as they’re referring to it – are fascinating. (Something about parasitic life and predatory evolution cycles.) Or, they would be, were the entire ship not currently being munched on by his riveting thesis topic. Eddie’s loathed to tell him this, staying silent for the most part. It’s accepted as a survival tactic, meaning the AI doesn’t get upset by his lack of response. They can both jerk themselves off in a scientific wank session over it later, if either of them survive.

The engineer does consider that last part, however, sliding out of the maintenance vent. He emerges beside airlock G-3, far from where he wants to be. The lab they need is at the opposite end of the deck but this is as close as he’s sneaking. The sparks in the vent leading that way had Ack Ack whispering anxious warnings in his ear.

Hillbilly’s preference is ‘direct assault’. It really chafes his hide to hear that stealth is the way to go. Slinking about isn’t exactly suited to his strengths or body type, all long limbs and hard punches.

“Edward.” Andy mutters suddenly, cutting whatever adorably useless spiel he was giving short. He snaps back into command mode. “There are life signs approaching. They’re human.”

“Yeah,” Eddie sighs, as quietly as he can, “Shame about that.”

The flashlight beams cut through the dim emergency lighting, someone having smashed the sirens on this deck. The footsteps, cautious like his own, approach from down the hall. The engineer remains crouched, pistol raised as he turns off the scanner on his belt. He doesn’t need those accelerating beeps right now. He’s poorly hidden, pressed against the maintenance hatch.

There’s nowhere to hide – unless he jumps out the airlock – and he’s outnumbered.

“Edward.” Ack Ack mutters. He’s lowered his volume. “I advise diplomacy until I’m able to formulate a plan.”

What a coincidence. Hillbilly had been thinking the exact opposite.

There isn’t much chance he can kill all four of them in rapid succession, particularly if they shoot back. Element of surprise only extends so far. There’s also no way in all of Terran Space that he’s going to let them put a bullet in his head for free.

The indecision, forced by Andy’s calm authority, wastes precious time. His crewmates are already turning the corner and Eddie loses his edge.

He growls softly.

Pistol shoved down the back of his belt, he raises his hands in surrender. He stands, palms forward, and steps into the light.

“Fuck-!” One of the stranger’s cries, raising his baton towards the emerging engineer. (He probably would’ve thrown it at Eddie then and there, were it not smacked back down by another in his party.)

“Cool it, Waits.” A clearly smarter man hisses. “Keep your voice down and your shit _together_.”

All flashlights turn on Hillbilly in the meantime. He squints in the glare, illuminated for all to see. In his earpiece, he hears a rapid name listing.

“Security Captain Thomas Riley. Tech-Major Cyrus Waits. Security Lieutenant Rachel Tythe. Tech-Colonel Samuel Brooks.” Andy rattles off. “All malnourished, with elevated stress levels causing physical detriment. Riley and Tythe carrying concealed firearms, other melee weapons negligible.”

Eddie hums, nodding his acknowledgement. He makes it appear like a greeting to the others.

“Evenin’.” He says. (It’s probably not evening.) His eyes are beginning to hurt. “Mind shinin’ them lights some place else?”

The party exchanges glances. All stern and sinister under the hallway’s dim emergency glow. Riley nods and all but his flashlight clicks off. His lip twitches as he speaks.

“What you doing here, _Hillbilly?_ ” He asks.

Whatever answer he gets, something says it won’t satisfy.

They all approach, confident in their number advantage. A real shit situation, every step they take closing the circle around Hillbilly. A growl rumbles in his chest and he forces it down. He knows it’s his own stupid hesitation that’s landed him in this nasty predicament, but he can’t help but blame Ack Ack on the side.

Turning his back to the wall, hands still upraised, Eddie can conceal the pistol in his belt. It’s his last hope if the AI doesn’t come through. (Andy’s silent at the moment, in no danger himself. That’s a thought Eddie has to smother, refusing to consider the possibility his life may be unimportant to a fucking computer. Sacrificing himself for the ship and its AI seems tragic in that context.)

Riley looks him up and down, hands on his hips. That ugly body armour covers his form, making him out to be bigger than he really is. (And harder to kill.) He’s got the expression to match; all bravado and no compassion.

“Wow.” He mutters. His voice has elevated in volume a fraction, the real threat forgotten as he’s swept up in their reunion. “You put on your dress blues for the show, huh?”

Everybody – Eddie included – follows his gaze. They look to the clean boilersuit the engineer’s put on, the best of a bad bunch. The fabric with the least burn marks and coffee splatters. It’s far cleaner than any of the others, and it still has scuffs at the knees.

Waits, skinny little prick that he is, has to cover his mouth to muffle his laughter. (Good thing they only gave him a baton, not a gun. Kid would probably blow his own fingers off to make friends.) Tythe slaps him but her smile isn’t much better. Should have expected a smirk to match Riley’s, her being his second and all. She’s the only other person wearing that stupid body armour. The fourth crewmate, Brooks, glances around nervously. His mind’s on bigger things but fuck him anyway.

And Hillbilly? He averts his eyes, fingers flexing awkwardly. Any quip he might have dies on his tongue. Of all the times for this kind of ribbing, he swears this isn’t it. (He doesn’t have a reply because Riley’s right; he did choose this boilersuit specifically. If he’s going to die, and jury says he _definitely is_ , he wants it to be in a uniform that isn’t complete rags.)

The security captain’s sidled up to him, waving the others to one side. (They clump together like eager school children, wanting to see the class bully hand out an ass whooping. The light from the airlock window illuminates their excited faces perfectly. It’s about as pathetic as it gets and so predictable to this skip’s work environment. Banika Limited have an exclusive hire policy of assholes-only.)

With a nasty wink, Riley starts rummaging amongst the items on Eddie’s belt. It’s uncomfortable and makes the engineer grunt, recoiling from the touch. The pat-down – which is too polite a term for the rough tugs Riley’s giving – doesn’t stop. Hillbilly gets shoved back against the wall for his resistance.

He snarls in pain, his upraised hands becoming fists. He doesn’t lower them and he falls still, as desired, so the security captain can continue. (In his earpiece, he swears he hears an inhale. Or a gasp. Some fluttering of breath that shouldn’t be there.)

Riley inspects his scanner and laughs. An unimpressive haul indeed.

“What was your plan with this?” He muses, tapping the cracked screen. “Don’t think it’ll help you find any friends.”

Fucking Waits snorts again and it’s singlehandedly the most irritating sound in the entire universe. Cop humour is so incredibly mediocre, it briefly makes Eddie wish they’d shot him on sight.

“I’m headin’ down t’ the flight deck.” He lies. “Hopin’ I can get a shuttle off this rig.”

Fitting snugly with their perceptions of him, none of his captors question the ruse. Brooks rolls his eyes dramatically – Hillbilly knew he was a piece of shit at heart – and Waits sniggers again. Tythe shakes her head and looks to Riley for a response.

Her captain sneers. His gloved hand shoves Eddie’s chest, knocking him against the wall again. When he leans in, the engineer can smell his breath.

“You think we didn’t try that, you stupid hick?” Riley snarls. The suggestion didn’t amuse him. “Whole group of us tried to jump ship the moment Mackenzie got smeared up his bedroom wall.”

“We can’t even blow this hunk of shit up, now the captain’s dead.” Tythe spits. “The sequence needs his voice and facial recognition to activate, one of those destruction logs.”

So, they’ve figured it out too. (Doesn’t take a genius to use a keyboard but credit where credit’s due.) Hillbilly stays silent, which doesn’t help. Riley’s got a tight grip on the front of his belt, pressing down against the crotch of his boilersuit. The man’s sneering from barely an inch away and knows exactly what he’s doing.

“The system’s locked us in. We’re all fucked.” He whispers, low enough only the engineer hears. He speaks louder for the follow up, smirking again. “Well, you are anyway.”

He’s got his own ruse to keep up, it seems. He addresses his party, smiling as if he’s got everything under control. (Fat chance. The only thing he’s got under his control is Hillbilly’s belt buckle and its owner has plans to violently remedy that.)

“We’ve got ourselves holed up in one of the labs. Supplies, food, guns. Enough to keep us and our buddies safe until rescue.” He yanks, _hard_ , on Eddie’s belt, bringing them back together. “Sorry, Hillbilly. Invite only.”

With his free hand, Riley reached towards his hip. Beneath his body armour, where a pistol holster would sit.

Hillbilly’s earpiece crackles into life.

“Edward. Do as I say.” Andy’s voice mutters calmly. “Grab the wall railing behind you with both hands. And close your eyes.”

There’s the sound of metal jostling as the security captain grips his pistol. It matches the quiet clunk as Eddie takes hold of the bar behind his back. He obeys easily, never flinching.

His eyes squeeze shut.

To his right, the airlock door explodes.


	3. Chapter 3

It's a bit of an insult to Eddie's craftsmanship, isn't it, using a door he repaired as an offensive weapon.

He supposes it's part and parcel of saving his life. It's got to be ironic and a little insulting.

With the shit equipment Banika provides, he'd done a damn good job on airlock G-3. Him and Andy had rerouted the electrics through two relays instead of six, since they couldn’t repair the broken four. Stroke of genius really. They make a great team.

Naturally, two sets of cables managing three times the power makes it _real_ _easy_ to overload the system, if someone wanted to. (No one wanted to. Past tense.)

The door explodes and since it’s Andy’s doing, the emergency forcefield is already in place on the other side, to prevent the depressurisation that would splatter them up the walls. Like Mackenzie but with less remaining organs.

That’s not comforting to Brooks, Tythe, and the skinny little Waits. The blast blows half of the latter’s face off, him being closest to the explosion. A chunk of door cuts straight through him, spraying blood over Eddie’s face. (So long, clean boilersuit. He grips the bar for dear life and still feels his feet lift off the ground momentarily.) That chunk of door imbeds itself in Tythe’s body armour, failing to comply with its assumed protection. She’s slammed against the far wall and slides down to a spasming pile on the floor.

Brooks is unfortunate to survive the plan. He’s blown off his feet and hits the beige panels all the same. He’s left clutching his face in mutilated hands, rubbing stumpy, burnt fingers over his melting eye socket. His screaming is gurgled around the missing part of his jaw.

That’s the scene Eddie opens his eyes to, brought back to reality by the warm droplets that splatter his skin. (Compliance with Ack Ack’s instruction protected him from going blind. That’s what he tells himself, because otherwise the AI just didn’t want him to see this.)

He finds Riley also blown off his feet, though barely harmed thanks to his armour and position. What a shame.

He’s struggling to get back up, groaning as he wipes the blood from his face. His snarl makes it sound like he’s suffered a grave insult. A glance at the sobbing Brooks puts the idea to rest, lets him know just how lucky he’s been.

In that fraction of a second, Eddie finds himself elsewhere. The same pull from the bridge, flipping his world somewhere it shouldn’t be. He’s back on campaign; there’s gunfire in the distance, smoke over the ridge, and somebody’s screaming his name.

“What the fuck did you _do_ -?!” Echoes across his momentary fantasy.

The engineer blinks. The snarling question is from Riley, glancing in horror between him and Brooks. He’s reaching for his pistol.

Releasing the bar, Eddie kicks off the wall. He tackles the security captain, sending his gun skidding away as they both hit the floor. He’s quick to land a couple of hard punches to the man’s jaw, the areas already battered from catching the airlock blast. Riley hits him back, across the eye, then knees him in the stomach, trying to get him off. There’s a smile on the captain’s lips as he hears the harsh shouts of pain he causes.

Ignoring the burning under his skin, Hillbilly slams his fist down on the man’s nose. Three times, making sure it cracks under his knuckles. A job well done; those strikes to his gut become limper, reduced to pawing at his boilersuit.

They stop as Eddie pulls back his fist, threatening a final eye-splitting punch. He receives a pathetic whimper from Riley.

And they have a winner.

Satisfied, Hillbilly sits back on his haunches. He spits the blood from his teeth and grunts unhappily. He’s panting.

To his right, Brooks is still crying and cradling his face. A single glance from the engineer is enough. It turns his stomach, the scene blackening the hallway with dark smears. Everything smells like bacon.

“Edward.” A voice in his ear asks softly. “Are you alright?”

My, what a question. The emotions it inspires are difficult to describe, particularly for someone nursing a split lip and bruised ribs. 

Hillbilly chooses not to answer. He pulls himself up, staggering over to his scanner. Picking it off the floor, he briefly wipes his face with the back of his hand. Crimson streaks are left on his skin and they’re mostly not his. Without a word, he flicks on the device.

The green interface crackles into life. There are only three blobs – him and the surviving members of the asshole brigade – and none are moving. No beeps.

Eddie lays his palm flat against the wall and hangs his head, groaning quietly. He does his best to stifle it and he’s not sure why. (Well, he _does_ know why. It’s an old habit, not wanting to make his friends worry for him. Concern is something he gives, not receives.)

If his computer-turned-partner wants to know how he’s doing, he can read everything with his sensors. Even limited, he knows more about Hillbilly than Hillbilly does.

Doesn’t mean Eddie wants him to worry.

“Edward…” The AI mutters.

His volume is lower and it sounds like a question. There’s a longing in his tone, drawing it down to a whisper.

Convinced it’s in his head, the engineer grunts angrily. “I’m fine.” He replies.

Discounting the ache in his side and the throbbing in his face, it’s true. (Compared to the two dead bodies behind him, it’s spectacularly true.)

“You’re hurt.” Andy says instead. His authority returns but his firmness does not; he’s nothing but caring. “I’m sorry, Edward. I didn’t-”

“ _What?_ ” Eddie interrupts. He laughs, a genuine chuckle despite the cough it causes. “Y’ saved me. You didn’t have t’ do that.”

The static crackling in his ear shouldn’t sound so close to a human sigh. (The distinctly sad kind, rattling a man’s chest as he closes his eyes.)

Hillbilly shakes his head, straightening up. He rests his back against the wall instead, catching his breath. It forces him to face the wreckage around him; the two torn corpses, the two men still alive. One semi-conscious, curtesy of his fists, the other sobbing on the floor.

It’s carnage. It’s almost as bad as the bridge.

And it’s all Ack Ack’s doing.

Eddie swallows. The ship’s computer just murdered two of the crew – for _him_. The realisation sits uncomfortably in his throat. From his earpiece, he hears his companion speak, like he’s following his eyes. They both stare down the bodies together.

“I’ll do better next time.” Ack Ack assures. Coldly, possessively, and leaving no room for debate.

It sends excited chills up the engineer’s spine. An ugly, thrilling feeling, quite different from the warm joy the AI usually stirs in him. Something he can’t ignore, can’t force down. (Of course, Andy must mean it in a different sense. He must mean that he’ll pursue a non-violent solution next time, that he’ll save everybody next time, that there won’t _be_ a next time. Those lies won’t stretch far enough to cover the coldness in his words.)

All of it has Hillbilly wiping sweat from his forehead and it’s unrelated to the heat of the explosion. Andy must notice. (He _always_ notices.)

“You didn’t have t’ do that.” Eddie repeats. It’s weak.

It doesn’t satisfy Ack Ack in the slightest. He snorts.

“Edward, of all seven-hundred and eighty-two members of this crew,” He explains firmly, “Only _twelve_ have ever said ‘thank you’ – or equivalent – to me, totalling one-thousand fifty-three expressions of gratitude over eighteen months.”

Despite the statistical explanation, he sounds quite passionate. As if an equally distasteful – yet equally electrifying – feeling is stirring him on.

“Of those occurrences,” He states, “Nine-hundred and ninety-nine of them have been from _you_.”

Eddie visibly swallows. His eyes drift upwards, towards where he’d expect to find his conversation partner. He licks his lips and blames the fight for his rapid heartbeat, not the voice in his ear.

Andy doesn’t stop there. The silence drives him forward, anger bubbling under the surface of his smooth tones.

“You’re the _only_ member of crew to consistently say ‘thank you’. You’re the _only_ member of crew to _ever_ say ‘please’ when asking for my assistance.” There’s another fraction of a second, another pause that shouldn’t be there.

When Ack Ack speaks again, his volume has dropped to an intimate mutter.

“I’m supposed to prioritise the lives of the crew in descending order of rank, starting with Captain Haldane.” He states. “This would leave you as my last priority, the seven-hundred and eighty-second person to receive my attention in an emergency.”

Some part of Hillbilly still expects him to stop there. Statement of fact, nothing personal. Harsh but fair. He holds his breath without realising, and waits for the punchline.

“That’s _not_ what’s going to happen.” Andy says, with deafening authority. “You, Edward, are my first priority.”

To any other person, it could sound sinister. Totalling the two dead crewmates, a third maimed, an attack with an explosive airlock, and the pure, seething certainty with which Ack Ack speaks; some might say this equalled a dangerous situation.

Eddie releases the breath he’d been holding. What escapes is the faintest huff, filled with disbelief. (Were Hillbilly to hear the sound coming from anyone else, he’d say it was wistful. Overwhelmed with a sense of longing and gratitude. Which would be, in his opinion, pretty pathetic.)

He wonders how to respond to all that. The AI is patient with him, as ever, and waits for his reply. Ack Ack can sense his elevated heartbeat, analyse the tremble in his lip, how he sinks his teeth into it.

The scanner beeps.

A fourth blip appears on the screen. The green dot grows brighter, moving towards the three already visible. Their little party has attracted unwanted attention. The bleeps accelerate.

“ _Fuck_.” The engineer hisses.

He looks around desperately, finding no cover to hide behind. There’s nowhere to dive out of sight, just as when he’d climbed out the vent and met Riley’s dipshit circus.

“Edward.” Andy pleads urgently, “The vent!”

 _The vent_. It’s already sliding open by the time Hillbilly jerks his head towards it. His boots slip in the blood as he scrambles towards it, his cuss muffled by gritted teeth. He grabs the bar on the wall and swings his legs through the opening. His body clatters inside and the panel hisses shut behind him.

Back to square one, the dim emergency lighting welcomes him home. In the relative darkness, Eddie can focus on the bleeping in his ear. Despite the relative safety of the vent, he still pressed his hand against his mouth.

Outside, he can hear Brook’s continued whimpering.

 _Beep… Beep… Beep... Beep._ The sound holds for a moment, a steady pace. The approaching entity stops. It should be roughly at the end of the corridor, finally in view.

From beyond the hatch, Hillbilly hears Brooks fall silent. A terrified sob echoes over the hall.

_Beep… Beep… Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep beep beep-beep-beep-!_

The beeping fills Eddie’s ear as stomping shakes the corridor, too quick to be human. The footfalls are wet and heavy, squelching as if they carry a huge mass. Any cry for help doesn’t last; Brook’s voice morphs into a horrific scream, followed by the noise of meat being torn apart. Another damp thud follows, then Riley’s confused groaning.

That sound doesn’t last either. It’s replaced by a cracking sound, similar to a whip, then a gurgle and hard thump. Those stomps slow, pacing just behind the maintenance hatch.

It’s easy to imagine the scene. That’s not what has Hillbilly’s breathing shaky, stuttering from his nose as quietly as he can force.

There’s another sound. A rattling, somewhere between the hiss of a reptile and the roar of a predator. Unlike anything he’s ever heard and distinctly alien. It rumbles through the hall and into the safety of the vents.

It terrifies him.

Eyes wide and muscles tense, the engineer scrabbles blindly to take hold of his pistol. Even with the trigger under his finger, he doesn’t sense it’ll be much help.

Ack Ack is silent and frankly, Eddie appreciates it. Or would, were he not struggling to breathe without giving himself away.

That inhuman rattle repeats. It’s just outside the vent, inches from the maintenance hatch.

Hillbilly can hear the thing _breathing_.

The beeping in his ear begins to soften. Those plodding steps move along the corridor, heading back the way they came. The sound disappears altogether, and the engineer releases a shuddering sigh.

A glance down at his scanner shows only one remaining blip.

Eddie rests his head against the floor. The metal feels cool against his skin. Lying on his front in the crawl space, he clutches his curls and closes his eyes. A familiar relief washes over him, a sensation he’s forced many times before. He’s alive and there’s nothing more to it. Nothing more he can ask for.

If he spent time dwelling on close calls, he’d never get anything done.

“I think we should abandon the original plan.” Andy says, crackling back to life.

Clearly, he doesn’t share the same relief. Hillbilly brings his head up with a rough snort. Dark humour curls around his smile.

“Givin’ up on me that easy, huh?” He whispers. The scanner’s silent but he’s not risking it. “Think I’m not fit f’ the job?”

“No.” Ack Ack replies. His tone is careful but dry. “The risk to you is simply too great.”

“You got any other candidates lined up t’ save the ship?” Eddie asks.

After a signature pause, the AI relents. “No.”

The engineer shrugs, awkward as the movement is. “Guess I’m headin’ t’ the lab then.” He grunts.

“Edward-” Andy tries, before he’s cut off.

“It’s just down the hall.” Comes the clipped response, Eddie drawing his pistol out the back of his belt. “Y’ can seal the door behind me.”

“And if it catches you?” Ack Ack asks.

There’s a glitch in the audio. It makes his voice sound like he’s scared. Hillbilly chooses to ignore it. (Just as he chooses to ignore their earlier exchange. Because he has to.)

“Then it’s gonna get a maxed pulse round through it’s fuckin’ teeth.” He replies.

A statement of fact. It draws a second audio glitch from his headset; this time, the sound of a chuckle. Fond and frustrated in equal measure.

At least he’s still entertaining. Hopefully, he can get that into his obituary, written with his own intestines as it’ll probably be. He’ll be sure to scrawl it on the wall in his final moments; Edward Jones, comedic delight. (Comedy to computers, anyway.)

Checking his scanner and finding himself the only blip, Eddie thumbs the manual release. The vent slides open.

You know, the science labs aren’t all that special up close.

It’s only seeing them fleetingly – always glared at while he fixed their terminals and hastily shooed out the door when he was done – that made Eddie so transfixed by them. Those rare tastes had left his mouth watering, his daydreams wandering over all the incredible discoveries to be made. Fantasies where he poured over alien fauna scans and not coffee machine schematics, where a scrappy engineer from Red Lion Three could don a smart uniform and slick white coat.

Fantasy being the key word, Hillbilly finds his bubble suitably burst stepping inside them now.

They’re decorated like the rest of the ship; overturned gurneys, smashed windows, dark smears. The corpses in the corridors are mercifully covered by body bags, zipped up and lined in neat rows. This had been an early stage of operation, while he’d been sealed away in his quarters.

Shame nobody’s playing janitor anymore.

The main entrance is dutifully locked shut by Andy. The scanner reveals no movement and the AI assures his companion that his scans detect no life signs.

“This area is built for containment.” Ack Ack says confidently. “There are no external vents or maintenance shafts. You’re safe while the main entrance is sealed.”

Eddie grunts. Safe doesn’t rhyme with No Alternative Exits. One way in means one way out.

When they’re done here, he’ll be heading back through that same door. Back down that corridor, with the pieces of his recently deceased crewmates across the floor. Back towards wherever that creature had disappeared to.

Not exactly the thrilling science experiment the engineer had imagined. He isn’t keen to be part of the statistical data himself.

He follows the signs and moves towards Lab G-8. He tries not to dwell, imagining rows of nasty teeth and sharp claws behind every blink. It makes his breathing shallow, staying almost as quiet as he had creeping down the corridor to get here. When he pauses to glance into Lab G-6 – eyes roaming over the strewn papers and SCOUTER suit storage – his thoughts reach a conclusion.

A piecing of information, from their conversation on the bridge to the mess he’s presented with here.

“You locked me in m’ quarters.” He mutters. “Didn’t you, Andy?”

He’s a little embarrassed it’s taken him this long to realise. (Though he _is_ currently facing certain death at the hands of drippy space vermin, so fair’s fair.) Facts fall into place as Hillbilly digests how dangerous this creature really is. How the AI would know that, despite their captain’s desperation to keep everything under wraps. How everybody else on the habitation deck seemed to have no trouble leaving their quarters, having stuck around purely because their interfaces told them to.

How none of those people had been designated the computer’s _first priority_.

Nudging a broken syringe with his boot, enjoying the glass crunching, Eddie waits for a response.

“Yes.” Ack Ack admits. His tone’s defaulted back to guilty. “I was desperate to protect you.”

Eddie nods.

“It’s okay.” He says. “I can see why.”

He means it and that’s unlike him. Being lied to is something he loathes – especially since there’s a lot of information he’s taken from Ack Ack and Ack Ack alone. But he forgave the AI earlier and he can’t take that forgiveness back. Might as well forgive this too.

Andy’s heart – or computer equivalent – had been in the right place.

“You believe what I said on the bridge, though, don’t you?” The computer asks. “I really can’t access the lab files or transport systems.”

A pause.

“If I could, I’d have put you on a shuttle immediately,” Ack Ack mutters, “And dealt with this alone.”

He sounds truly miserable.

Hillbilly adjusts his belt and sighs. He lifts his gaze towards the ceiling. Broken panelling stares back, electrics sparking in the dim light.

“I know.” He says. “Andy, I know.”

He imagines – and this time, he’s positive it’s in his mind alone – that the AI would smile if he could. It’s an image Eddie likes to conjure whenever he can. It pulls a grin across his own features, the first real one in a good while.

“Thanks.” He huffs. “F’ protectin’ me.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply, boots crunching in the shards as he continues down the hall. Their destination awaits, two doors down.

“That’s one-thousand expressions of gratitude, lieutenant.” Andy says.

God, he definitely sounds like he’s smiling, the teasing bastard. Hillbilly shakes his head, grunting in fond annoyance.

“Fuck off, Ack Ack.” He mutters.

Locating the terminal’s easy enough. Lab G-8, left hand wall, access codes recited in his ear.

Once Bill’s helped tear off the maintenance panel, that is. It’s simple to hack the electrics, knowingly them as intimately as Eddie does. A router adjustment there, a tiny rewire here, flip this breaker switch and you’re in. It feels good to combine familiar skills with some natural ingenuity. Some people are smarter than they may realise.

Andy certainly thinks so. Those crackles that sound like human emotions are back. In this instance, they’re hums of approval and small gasps of surprise.

“You’ve reinstated systems I’ve been unable to access for days, Edward.” He says, those quiet noises culminating in sincere praise. “Your resourcefulness truly is incredible.”

Hillbilly’s cheeks are red hot by the time he’s upright and tapping the screen, opening up the medical records. He replies solely in dismissive grunts.

“You getting’ this?” He asks, flicking the glass.

Mackenzie’s med bay scans flash up in green text. A swipe of the finger and the man’s autopsy record appears.

“Yes…” Andy mutters.

Several reports flicker open without any input on Eddie’s part. He folds his arms and allows the AI to take over, files appearing and disappearing in rapid succession. A blur of information only a computer can digest. An audio log is selected. Riley’s gruff voice fills the room.

“ _Tythe, the team sent down to the maintenance decks is all dead. Haldane’ll send us next. I ain’t waiting around to be eaten by the big black insect Daniels described. He said he shot it point blank - no dice. Last transmission, he was keeping it away with a burning baton… Clearly didn’t work out in the end. It ain’t scared of us and I ain’t scared of deserting- Meet me at the shuttles with our guys. Anyone tries to stop you? Go through them. Riley out_.”

“Immune to guns, huh.” Hillbilly mutters, glancing down at his Colt. So much for that.

He chooses not to comment on a dead man’s shitty behaviour. He’ll be here forever if he keeps that up. He chews over Riley’s words, glancing around the rest of the lab.

Andy’s already moved onto another log, an earlier entry, playing what he thinks might be helpful for his less-capable companion. The one who can’t sift through a thousand files a millisecond.

“ _Haldane, it’s Seags. How do I put this… Well, the thing’s off Mackenzie. Hold your applause - whatever the med techs tell you is a lie. We didn’t do jack - the leathery little bastard crawled off itself. Curled up and died in a locker, scared the shit out of Tanaka- We’ve got it in a vat._ ”

Hillbilly’s left the terminal, moving across the room as the log plays. He finds the topic of discussion; the single specimen pod in use. Suspended in the green fluid, that strange crab creature can be seen behind the glass. Its scorpion tail hovers around finger-like legs, bony and covered by leathery skin.

The engineer’s face twists in disgust.

“ _We ran every test possible on Mackenzie and couldn’t help him. Thing wouldn’t budge. When we touched it, it tightened its tail around his neck, damn near strangled him twice. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen… But I’ve never known an insect to latch onto a person for amicable reasons. Anyway, Mackenzie says he feels fine. Sent him back to habitation to recuperate, making sure nobody panics. I need you to divert resources to this, no second-rate shit. Seags out._ ”

“So much f’ that.” Eddie mutters. “Don’t explain what happened t’ Mackenzie though. Or how we got here.”

“I believe I have an answer for that.” Andy says.

He doesn’t sound thrilled by the proposition. Far from his usual love of discussing science, whatever knowledge he’s gleaned from the terminal files has failed to excite him.

Hillbilly’s sure he’s head worse. “Hit me.” He says, moving over to the nearest storage panels.

As he rummages for supplies, Ack Ack draws in a deep breath. There’s no denying the noise this time.

“It’s an endoparasitoid.” The AI says. “An intelligent, bipedal predator, with a multi-stage lifecycle.”

Eddie dumps his loot against one of the tables. It slides over the metal as he pulls what he wants towards him. His ion blowtorch is tugged from his belt and flipped in his hand.

He hums, indicating he’s listening.

“We must assume the away team encountered the first stage of this cycle on G11-6.” Andy explains and says no more on the theory. “Tech-Colonel Mackenzie was unfortunate enough to encounter the second.”

Fuck, does Hillbilly not like where he’s going with this. He continues his work with gritted teeth, hum turning to a low, guttural growl. Still, he wants the AI to continue.

Human curiosity. Their species’ worst trait. (He sincerely hopes it’s not a detriment Ack Ack has subsequently absorbed into his programming.)

“The small creature that latched onto his face was not designed to live for any longer than necessary.” The AI murmurs. “At least, not after it had impregnated its host.”

Busy with his building work, Eddie visibly tenses. The quiet roar of his torch abruptly stops as he glances upwards. A look of deep disgust is sent towards the ceiling panels. (To Andy, in his view.)

“ _What?_ ” He spits. His fingers flex around his tools.

“Once it has subdued its victim,” Ack Ack says, “It inserts something down their oesophagus. Possibly an egg or an embryo… Something that would be difficult, if not impossible, to remove.”

Grim silence fills the lab. A moment’s pause on both their parts, digesting the horrific information. Suddenly, Hillbilly’s not so concerned with having his insides smeared across a hallway. There are evidently worse ways to go.

With a heavy exhale and a shake of his head, dislodging the images that spring to mind, he flicks on his blowtorch again. The bright light is a great distraction as he works masterfully with his looted supplies, welding the metal and wires together with efficient care.

The words ‘chest burst open’ springs to mind from the canteen. Eddie shudders.

What a way to fucking go.

“The thing turnin’ half the crew into pulled pork ain’t small enough t’ fit inside Mackenzie.” Hillbilly says.

Though he hasn’t seen it – and he plans to keep it that way – he knows the heavy footfalls he heard were that of a beast. Huge, bigger than him by a mile, and he isn’t fucking small.

“That seems to be its final stage.” Andy says. “An adult specimen, predatory in nature and incapable of communication.”

“Mnn.” The engineer hums, screwing his blow torch into the contraption he’s created, “Sounds like one a’ my ex-boyfriends.”

The smirk he gives is crooked and doesn’t last. (He mentally kicks himself as he realises it was a shitty joke. Nor does he want his personal life broadcast; he’s never one to share titbits about himself so easily.)

But Ack Ack laughs, so it must be okay. A chuckle of static, quickly stifled as the AI clears his throat. (It must have been a real chuckle if it’s followed by an attempt to cover.)

They both fall quiet again, Eddie’s crooked smile having creeped back over his face. They bring out the idiot in each other, it seems.

Ack Ack dutifully returns them to the issue at hand, bringing the gravity to the room. “I have to trap or destroy it, Edward.” He says.

To save the ship. That mountain of a moral task, motivating the AI’s actions.

“To save you.” Andy adds.

The squeak of the blowtorch stops as Hillbilly’s shoulders tense. His eyes drift over the table, distracted by the overwhelming emotions he can’t quite describe. A possessive affection that stirs his gut and burns hotter than a HORNET engine under his cheeks.

Nobody has ever said things like that; not to him, nor about him. It has his chest tightening and it’s not from fear.

Then his frown sets back in and he grunts in annoyance. (At himself, rather than Andy.) He yanks his creation off the table, knocking his palm upwards against the blowtorch as you would a magazine into a pulse rifle. It slams the canister into place, the fuel for his masterpiece.

“I’ll save m’self.” Eddie grumbles. “You just gotta help me do it.”

Rummaging in his pocket, he pulls out his zippo lighter. Final necessary component. He kisses it for good luck then flips it open clips it into place.

He points his new toy towards the wall and thumbs the lighter’s wheel. A tiny flick of his finger, releasing a burst of fire over the table. It singes the ceiling panels and leaves him chuckling darkly. He turns his makeshift flamethrower over in both hands, admiring his handiwork.

Not bad for a Pennsylvania Fiver.

“Impressive.” Ack Ack says. He hums softly. “But do you think that might be a little… violent?”

Hillbilly sends an offended snort towards the ceiling.

“Well, I’m not try’na fuck it, Andy!” He cries, brandishing the weapon. “I’m try’na kill it!”

He receives a breathless chuckle for his trouble. Fond of his aggressive display, filled with warm affection. The engineer loathes the joy it sends coursing through his veins.

“You’re right.” Andy says. “I apologise.”

Because he doesn’t want the AI to feel bad – stupid as that always is – Eddie shrugs.

“We’ll see.” He replies. “Might be worth fuck all. I’m takin’ Riley’s word for it.”

It’s a gamble he’s going to have to take. They both know that.

“Though I don’t doubt your capabilities,” Ack Ack says, serious once more, “Your hacking has given me access to invaluable information I can use to trap and kill this creature. I don’t want to put you at any further risk.”

Hillbilly hums disapprovingly. “And what you gonna do then? Release a shuttle for me?”

He knows the answer and that’s why he’s asking. The containment protocols hardwired into the ship won’t go anywhere, even if either of them kill Banika’s rampaging specimen. Andy’s locked out, just as he had been with the medical files.

“I’m the system operator, not the system itself. I’m unable to hack into any of the ship’s interfaces.” He says. “I’m sorry, Edward, I won’t be able to release an escape shuttle.”

How desperately he wants to is crystal clear. His breathing, if it can be called that, rattles the earpiece as he steels himself to continue.

Eddie grows bored of coaxing a realisation and cuts him off.

“Well, good thing I can.” He grunts. He nods towards the lab terminal. “But I’d need y’ help.”

Those are the key components, unavailable to everybody else on the ship. A person with maintenance knowledge to open the terminal, and a supercomputer to operate the system once inside.

A team that shouldn’t exist, the former unwilling to risk their lives for the mission, the latter having no need to release the containment. Hillbilly could hole himself up in a vent with stolen food and hope for rescue. Likewise, Ack Ack could power himself down and wait to be retrieved. Certain survival, in the latter’s case.

That’s how things should be playing out. Probably how whoever put in the containment protocols would _like_ things to play out.

Eddie has other ideas.

“I crack open the alpha terminal on the maintenance deck, I can give you access to whole fuckin’ system.” He says, though he’s sure the AI’s already caught up.

“I could disable the containment protocols…” Andy whispers. “And retrieve the restricted data even Captain Haldane wasn’t privy to. Resume control of the systems, even temporarily.”

“Givin’ you access to the shuttles.” Hillbilly concludes.

“Giving us access to the shuttles.” Ack Ack agrees.

The engineer nods smugly, running his thumb over his Frankenstein flamethrower. “Two idiots, one shitty plan.” He says. He’s almost proud of himself.

Never one to be outdone, Andy hums in his ear. “I don’t believe that’s the correct expression, Edward." He notes.

Hillbilly laughs.

Done with fucking around, he starts toward the door. He rests his weapon against his shoulder, like some thrilling action hero, and keeps his scanner in the other hand. Bill and his Colt have returned to his belt, unneeded for the time being.

“Either way, we gotta go down t’ the maintenance decks.” He says.

The place where all those people went missing. Shouldn’t be a problem. Sure, Ack Ack can’t scan down there, the whole area having gone dark. But there’s only one big black beast roaming the halls; just because it wiped out the security team on that deck first doesn’t make it any more dangerous down there. Hopefully the creature will be munching someone elsewhere.

It’s where the alpha terminal’s located, that’s what matters. (It’s also on the way to the flight deck.) They’ve got themselves a plan.

And Eddie’s not taking no for an answer. He heads back down the lab hallway, towards his only exit. He thinks Andy’s going to argue with him when he hears his voice crackle again.

“While we’re here, lieutenant,” The AI asks, “Would you consider assisting me in something else?”

The formality is odd. It’s not teasing this time. The engineer slows, scowling as he tries to place the tone. Guilty wouldn’t be the right word.

Embarrassed, that’s it. Andy sounds embarrassed.

“It won’t take very long.” He mutters. “I think it’ll improve the chances of our plan succeeding.”

Well, when he justifies it like that, who is Eddie to refuse. (He wasn’t going to.)

“Sure.” The engineer replies. “Whatever you need.”

Inside Lab G-6, besides some broken locker doors and an overturned table, the equipment is all intact.

The technology for encountering new species, hilarious as that sounds now. Primarily the ship’s SCOUTER synthetic; the reason for their diversion. An android a lot like those back in Terran Space, only without the visible wires or plate lines at its joints. State of the art, this thing, close enough to human to fool any alien they find. Artificial life signs, synthetic blood vessels, realistic skin texture, internal heat. The _works_.

Eddie’s always been curious about it. Unable to glimpse the suit behind its storage panel, he has to wonder if it’ll fool their rampaging new friend. He doesn’t think the huge beast prowling the halls is wanting a chat about planetary resource contracts.

The situation’s a little different, so original purpose be damned.

At Andy’s instruction, he wrenches open the access terminal and gets to work on the wiring. (Bill’s working overtime with all these bolts and Hillbilly silently thanks him for it.) The AI is justifying his request – completely unnecessary as that is – while the engineer brute forces his way into the system.

“The synthetic available, despite its appearances, is not confined to a human level of strength or dexterity.” Ack Ack explains. “With access to it, I can physically protect you on our way to the alpha terminal. I haven’t been much help as a disembodied voice, besides opening vents.”

He’s right (except about the last part) and he didn’t need to say it. It’s fairly obvious why a second pair of hands would be helpful; a super strong pair, too.

Eddie stands back up, tapping the terminal screen. The equipment lights up normally and he’s granted access to the initiation sequence. His finger hovers over the flickering button that reads SCOUTER SYNTH – ACKACK TRANSFER.

“This don’t… hurt you, right?” He asks.

Such a stupid question. Computers don’t have pain sensors. (Though that may be about to change.)

“Not at all.” Andy replies. His tone is comforting, soothing over his companion’s fears rather than mocking them. “In fact, with your hacking assistance, I’m no longer restricted to transferring a limited part of myself over; I’m able to move completely into the synthetic. I won’t be copied and will no longer be confined within the ship’s software.”

 _Confined_. That’s a word that has Hillbilly scowling.

He doesn’t dwell on the conceptual prison one of them might be trapped in. His thumb presses the button and he watches the SCOUTER unit hum into life.

Lights flicker and turn green, that human-size panel clunking as internal locks are deactivated. On the terminal screen, a progress bar rapidly fills and blinks as it reaches completion. The container door hisses, cold steam pooling on the floor as it slides back.

Hillbilly’s earpiece falls silent. He squints for a moment at the bright light behind a humanoid figure, stepping out into the lab. The glow fades as the storage unit powers down, leaving them in the quiet of the empty room.

The man just emerged blinks. He glances down as his hands, flexing his fingers, and runs his eyes over his pristine blue boilersuit. He seems enraptured for a brief moment, admiring himself. He blinks again.

Satisfied, Andy looks back up. He meets Eddie’s silent stare.

The resemblance to the recently departed Captain Haldane is definitely there, though mercifully not an exact replica. A sibling-style relationship of appearances, Banika’s design team having apparently ironed out all the shitty personality that shone through in the man’s looks. Without the slicked back hair and moustache, they could be brothers, with Ack Ack being the more attractive, less vile of the pair.

The only feature distinct from human is his eyes. They’re bright, electric blue, closer to white in colour. They’re unnatural.

Hillbilly licks his lips. He visibly swallows.

Catching him staring, the AI blinks again. His irises dim to a natural grey.

“I can keep them at this level, if you like.” He says. “It only minorly inhibits my vision.”

The lump choking the engineer’s throat had absolutely _jack shit_ to do with eye colouration. With a soft cough to dislodge his embarrassing arousal – hopefully unnoticed – Eddie shakes his head.

“You should keep ‘em bright.” He says. His voice is firm and his smile shy. “They suit you.”

Besides lightening back to that almost-white, Andy’s eyes widen in surprise. It’s an innocent expression, staring blankly as he absorbs the sentiment. He hadn’t been expecting that.

Then he smiles, and Hillbilly swears the whole Goddamn room gets brighter.

“Thank you, Edward.” Ack Ack says. “You’ve fulfilled one of my few desires on this ship. It means a lot to me.”

What his other desires might be, he makes no indication.

With death literally around every corner, the engineer realises it really is now or never to correct the whole first name thing he’s been enduring. Worrying his lip for a moment – a guilty gesture that the AI does not miss – Hillbilly speaks.

“Eddie.” He says. “My, um- My friends call me Eddie.”

"Eddie." Andy repeats. He considers it. He looks to his company as if he's been told something astonishingly grand. "It sounds beautiful."

Well, if a bloodthirsty alien isn’t cause to have Hillbilly fainting, that certainly is. His expression crumbles into vulnerable surprise, his eyes darting away from the other man. (He can’t hold a candle to those incredible white hues.)

He nods stiffly in reply. Crouching down, searching for a distraction more than anything, Eddie picks up his scanner and flamethrower. He’s stopped as he straightens up, a gentle hand laid around his wrist. The touch is unexpectantly warm, exactly as human skin should feel. It sends a shiver up his spine. (It’s been a while. Truly tragic.)

“Whatever happens,” Ack Ack says softly, ducking his head to capture Hillbilly’s eyes, “I want you to know how thankful I am.”

For the suit, the engineer suspects. He huffs out a laugh and it’s missing his usual roughness. It’s hard to be all gruff and unfeeling when they’re so close to holding hands.

“Don’t mention it.” Eddie mumbles. “I just pressed a button.”

Andy snorts quietly. A ghost of a laugh as he smiles. “Not for that.”

His thumb rubs over his companion’s knuckles, tracing circles against the skin. They’re _dangerously_ close to holding hands.

“For everything.” Ack Ack clarifies. “You’ve been kinder to me than I could ever expect. Thank you.”

Hillbilly wonders where the AI learned to be this intense, speaking with such quiet authority. Whatever the answer, they don’t have time to dwell on it. The engineer nods stiffly again and gives a strangled hum in response. Around his flamethrower, he gives a pathetic thumbs up gesture. (He’s terrible at receiving praise.)

It’s utterly stupid but Andy gets the hint. He releases his grip, his smile never wavering.

“I’ll lead the way.” He says.

With a final nod, that handsome android moves determinedly towards the door. Eddie follows obediently behind. He doesn’t have the heart to argue.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for indulging this ridiculousness, comments appreciated!


End file.
